September Sky
by TeaNSympathy
Summary: Roger meets her on the worst day of both of their lives.


Tuesday, September 11, 2001

Roger had meant to get to work early that Tuesday. He has only been at the SDNY for two weeks and he knows he is still proving himself, knows that Byrne takes careful note of which of the new AUSAs arrive early and stay late and which of them don't put in the extra time. He desperately wants to be in the first category. But Maggie is teething and was up all night. They've been taking turns getting up with her, which is a good idea in theory but which actually results in both of them being exhausted. Plus, on his way out the door Renee had started what he viewed as a completely unnecessary argument about whether he would _for once_ make it home in time for dinner, which results in him missing the early train and dashing any hopes of arriving before his colleagues.

As he exits the subway at Chambers Street, his foul mood lifts slightly. It is an absurdly beautiful day, the sky a clear and cloudless turquoise, and there is a slight fall crispness in the breeze, which seems unusually fresh for New York. He allows himself to hope that the day will go well, that he will win the case he has been working on for today and that he will make it home in time for dinner, that he and Renee will celebrate and that Maggie will finally sleep through the night. He checks his watch. 8:45. At least he should be on time, even if not early.

As he climbs the stairs, the man next to him gasps and lets out a low whistle. "Did you see that?" He points southward. "That plane! Geez, it's low!" Roger looks towards where the man is pointing, but before he can make anything out a thunderous boom resounds through Foley Square, loud enough to hurt his ears. He looks around for the cause – a sonic boom? Something in the subway? The crowd around him erupts in shock, people looking up in confusion and fear. He follows their gazes skyward and that's when he sees the black smoke billowing. Continuing toward the courthouse he mounts the stairs two at a time and it comes into view. The North Tower of the World Trade Center, the looming monstrosity that he, like most New Yorkers, had never really cared for but accepted as part of landscape, is, unbelievably, gashed in its side, smoke pouring forth like blood. A cloud of white flakes joins the smoke – papers, his brain realizes. There are people in that building, his brain realizes.

Renee. He has to call Renee back in Long Island, has to let her know he's safe. He dials the number on his cell phone, but the call won't go through. He tries again and again, needing to hear her voice, but with no success. The pay phones. He heads for the pay phones, but everyone else has apparently had the same thought. He waits behind other people making worried calls to loved ones and eventually it is his turn. He glances up at the clock, realizing that it's a few minutes past nine and he's officially late, but today he's sure it doesn't matter. Renee picks up on the first ring.

"Renee? It's me. Something happened to the World Trade Center. It's on fire. I'm ok. I don't know what's going on but I'm ok."

"Where are you?" Her voice is brittle with fear.

"I'm in the courthouse. What's going on?"

"It's a plane. It hit the tower. It's on TV now, no one seems to know-"

Boom! The crash shakes the courthouse and Renee screams.

"Oh my God! It's another one. Another one just hit the South Tower. Oh my God, Roger, you have to get out of there. Come home."

His heart is beginning to pound. Around him people are talking frantically, heading out the doors. He catches the word "terrorist." He catches the words "under attack."

"Renee, I've got to go. I'll be home soon. You and Maggie stay safe. I love you."

"Love you too. Be safe."

He hangs up the phone and starts to head up to his office, needing to find out whether the court will close for the day. Someone elbows him out of the way, rushing past without a word. Roger recognizes a fellow AUSA, Peter Margulies. Peter's face is drawn and white as paper. Suddenly Roger remembers that Peter's wife works at Cantor Fitzgerald. He gets only a few steps toward the elevator when he is stopped by a court officer who bellows at him to turn around, that the building is being evacuated and he needs to leave.

Outside it is chaos. People are crying, dazed, some simply staring in shocked silence at the burning towers. Sirens have begun to screech and wail, every fire truck and police car in New York seemingly headed toward the burgeoning inferno to the south. He is transfixed, frozen in place by the sight, until suddenly a female voice cuts though his paralysis.

"Anybody! Does anybody speak Russian? Who speaks Russian?"

He speaks Russian. He'd studied it in college, partly because of his love for Tolstoy and Dostoevsky and partly because he thinks it may come in handy if he ever has to prosecute the Russian mob.

He looks toward the source of the voice and they make eye contact.

"You! Do you speak Russian?"

She is sitting on the steps next to another woman and he makes his way toward her.

"Some. A little."

The woman is small and pretty, with sleek blonde hair and an expensive, beautifully cut suit. Her eyes bore into his, sharp, intelligent blue eyes that match the glorious September sky. She is holding the hand of her companion, a plump older woman in her sixties or seventies who is wailing and rocking back and forth. Her ankle is bent at an awkward angle. It is bruised and beginning to swell. Roger is no doctor, but he knows a break when he sees one.

"She fell down the stairs. She doesn't speak English. Can you help?"

"I'll try."

Squatting next to her, he asks the woman what's wrong. The stream of sob-interspersed Russian is hard for him to translate, but he catches enough words to understand.

"She's here for the naturalization ceremony. She's with her daughter, but her daughter had to drop something off at work first so she decided to wait for her here. Her daughter works at Windows on the World."

"Oh, God."

The woman breathes deeply in and out, thinking..

"OK. Obviously she has to get to a hospital but her daughter will come back here looking for her. If she's not…"

She doesn't finish the thought.

"Ask her if she has a phone." He does, receives a negative response

"She doesn't"

The blonde woman passes him her own. He gives it to the Russian woman who dials but can't get through, so he passes it back to its owner.

"None of the phones work. I can't get through to my husband."

"I got to my wife on the pay phone. She and my daughter are fine. Do you want to try- I can stay with her if you want to go-"

She shakes her head.

"They aren't letting anyone in." Suddenly he notices the tears glimmering in her eyes. "I don't know where he is. We haven't spoken in two days. I …don't know where he is."

She rubs a tear away and he notes the gleam of her wedding band, the sparkle of the huge diamond engagement ring.

"Anyway. Enough of that. We need to get her out of here soon. "

The atmosphere has changed in the last few minutes. There is a crescendo of screaming and sobs as everyone in the square looks toward the World Trade Center. With a deafening rumble the South Tower collapses and pandemonium breaks out. There are police everywhere, herding the crowds north. Terrified people begin to run, looking back at the hellish scene behind them.

"We have to go. We'll just have to find her later."

Between them they manage to get the woman to a standing position and with her leaning heavily on their shoulders they begin to make their way north. People are running beside them, people streaming away from the Towers, people covered in dust, gasping for breath. A few cabs roar past and Roger tries to flag them down but nobody stops.

They have not gotten far from Foley Square when there is a shriek behind them.

"Mama!"

A figure hurtles toward them, completely covered in dust, and embraces the Russian woman.

"Oh my God!"

She turns to Roger and the blonde woman, taking in the situation.

"Thank you! Thank you for taking care of her."

"She needs to get to a hospital. I'm pretty sure her ankle is broken."

The woman's daughter nods, and the four of them keep limping northward as fast as they can which is nowhere near fast enough. Roger tries not to look back, tries not to panic.

Another cab speeds by. Again he tries to hail it and miraculously this one stops. He opens the door and helps the Russian woman and her daughter in.

"I can take one more, but only one!" the cabbie snaps.

Roger desperately wants to get home to Renee and Maggie, but he looks at the blonde woman and sees the unshed tears in her eyes again.

"You go," he tells her. "Go find your husband. I'm sure he's frantic."

She shakes her head.

"No, you. Get home to your daughter. I'll be fine."

Just then, he notices the red on her forehead, just above her left eyebrow. It must have been a flying piece of debris. The cut is not large, but it is beginning to bleed steadily.

"You're hurt." He gestures toward the wound. She touches her forehead and looks bemused at the blood that comes away on her fingers.

"Now! Or I leave!" the cabbie barks.

Roger makes a quick decision. He pushes the woman into the cab and slams the door. It roars north and he, now alone, begins to run.

It is hours before he can make it home. A tearful Renee meets him at the door and after he showers they huddle on the couch watching as the horror unfolds on television, again and again and again. Maggie sleeps on his lap, blissfully unaware.

For the first few months he wakes every night in a panic, back again in the chaos. Sometimes the blonde woman is there, with her unshed tears and the strength in her voice and her eyes the color of the September sky. Sometimes she isn't. He wishes he'd gotten her name so he could find out if she is ok. If she'd ever found her husband.

More time goes by and eventually he and Maggie are both sleeping thought the night. Pictures of the lost bloom like ghostly flowers all over New York and then, months later they are gone. The smell of smoke hangs in the air, but then one day it disappears. The first anniversary comes, and then the second. Noelle joins their family and none of them can really believe that there was a time when she wasn't part of it.

He finds his footing at the SDNY, becoming one of Byrne's most trusted, if not favorite AUSA's. He makes a name for himself with the Mafia cases he prosecutes.

More years go by and then, on another fall Tuesday, he walks into the office ready to head into court for his new case. It is a big one, an attempted assassination that luckily did not result in anyone's death. When he gets to the office he has a message to go see Byrne. He does so and receives the unwelcome news that the public defender he is planning to face is ill and that he will be prosecuting the case against a last-minute replacement instead.

"Who is it?" he asks, irritated by the change.

Byrne shrugs.

"She's new. Don't know much about her. Jill Carlan is the name."

This all seems very haphazard and he is fuming internally as he heads toward the courtroom. A woman with long blonde hair arrives at the door at the same moment as he does and he is automatically reaching to open the door when their eyes meet and he is frozen.

Sirens. Smoke. Screaming. Eyes the color of a September sky.

They stare at each other for a full minute. He can see the recognition in her gaze, notes the tiny scar just above her left eyebrow.

"Thank you," she says huskily. "And I don't want to talk about it."

She holds out her hand and he shakes it.

"Jill Carlan."

He is then and now simultaneously, her eyes holding his. The memories swirl around him vividly and then fade, leaving him standing on solid ground once more

"Roger Gunn." He motions toward the door. "Shall we?"

"We shall."


End file.
